All The Best Cowboys
by yellowcottondresses
Summary: Will and Kevin try to work through their relationship in the aftermath of his announcement, but the changing tide of his career and the struggle to be newly out threatens to break them apart.
1. Holding Pattern

Author's Note: This will be a three-parter. I have no idea how this season is going to pan out or what could possibly happen with Will/Kevin and the future of his career, but in the meantime I am way too ready for it to be September.

I don't own Nashville

I.

The day Kevin's invitation comes in the mail is the day Will's tires are slashed. And because when it rains it pours, it's also the perfect day for his ex-wife to text him for the first time in six months.

Kevin was told about it a few weeks ago, right before everything blew up: ASCAP's big gala honoring Nashville's best songwriters. Black-tie, hosted by industry bigshots, red carpet. The kind of thing where powerful people discuss who's being honored and the cameras discuss who invitees bring as a plus-one.

Kevin hasn't talked about it, and Will hasn't brought it up. But their silence about the gala only dances around the same topic: if he goes with Kevin, it's going to be their first public event as a couple.

So when the official invite comes in the mail, Will stares at the fancy embossed envelope for a long moment before sitting it on the countertop, right next to this month's electricity bill and an ad pamphlet for Rite-Aid. It's addressed to Kevin, anyway, which officially makes it his problem, not Will's.

Which can't be said about the slashed tires.

"I'm calling the police," Kevin said when he saw the damage. Which, Will noticed with gritted teeth, was pretty substantial - whoever did it practically took a damn chainsaw to all four tires.

There was also the matter of the word FAGGOT spray-painted across the driveway in bright blue paint.

Will was so busy staring at the word that he didn't register what Kevin was doing until he came back outside, cell phone in hand. "Wait, what are you doing?"

Kevin dialed, his face grim. "I'm calling the cops. Filing a police report." He pointed at the graffiti in his driveway. "This shit is vandalism."

Will reached for the phone. "Wait, hold on. Do we really need to do that?"

Kevin stared at him, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Look at what they did!"

"I can see it," Will snapped. "I just don't think we need to get the cops involved."

He stared back at the word written in bright blue letters, right there in the driveway for anyone to read.

"Might bring bad publicity," he added, his voice trailing.

"I don't give a shit," Kevin hissed, and then a voice came on the other end of the phone and Kevin turned away from him.

"Yes, hi, last night my home was vandalized last night and my boyfriend's tires were slashed. No, nobody's hurt. No, there aren't any weapons, as far as I can tell. No, nobody's in immediate danger."

Kevin hung up, his expression dark as he stared at the graffiti.

"Great," Will muttered. "This is just what we need. Another spot on TMZ."

"Really?" Kevin frowned. "That's your takeaway from all this?"

"Luke wanted me to keep my head down and my mouth shut," Will said. "Not end up on a segment of Inside Edition."

Kevin opened his mouth to argue, and Will pushed past him inside the house, calling behind him as he headed to the shower. "I could have just called a tow truck and washed that shit off with a hose."

"That's not the point!" Kevin shouted, but his words were lost as the bathroom door slammed and the shower head doused him in scalding-hot water that made his skin burn so hot it he stopped feeling it after a while, and after that happened he just stood under the spray with his eyes closed, leaning against the shower wall and trying to take a deep breath, the spray-painted FAGGOT flashing behind his eyes.

He didn't know how long he stood under the hot water, his skin numb and red. When he stepped out and toweled himself off in front of the mirror, it was so steamed up he couldn't see his reflection. With one hand he wiped the glass and caught a glimpse of his face - dark circles under his eyes, matted wet hair, sunburnt nose, tired expression. The mirror started misting over almost immediately, but his face was still very much the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, exactly, but it was almost a disappointment to look at what was there.

By the time he dried off and put clothes on, the cops were pulling out of Kevin's driveway while he stood in the doorway, leaning tiredly against the doorframe as he watched them leave.

Will braced himself for Kevin to say something, or pick up their fight where it left off, but instead he rubbed his eyes and asked Will, "Do you have to go anywhere today?"

"Why?"

"Since we're down a car." Kevin sighed. "If you have to go anywhere, you'll probably have to take mine. Or I can drop you off and pick you up, I guess."

"Oh." Will glanced at his truck, the tires completely flattened against the cement rippling with heat, even this early in the morning. "No. I mean, I don't have to go anywhere. I have that meeting with Luke tomorrow, but that's it."

Kevin nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"I called Triple A for a tow," he said to Will as he headed inside the house. "They said it'll be about forty-five minutes."

The front door clicked shut behind him, and even though it hadn't slammed Will still felt like he'd been shut out.

So the tow came and went, Kevin went out to run errands, and now Will is stuck in the house with today's To Do pile spread all over Kevin's living room coffee table. It's more or less where he's been camping for the past few weeks; "laying low", Luke advised, since he was officially dropped from the tour and Wheelin' & Dealin' has been scrambling for a way to handle Will's bombshell.

Which isn't to say the press hasn't found their own way to spin it, because what else do they have to talk about. Not like there are a million other pressing issues going in in the universe, other than one guy deciding to come out of the closet, but tell that to the reporters and news vans that camped out on Gunnar's lawn and in front of Wheelin' and Dealin', trying to get an exclusive. They would have tried to stalk Kevin's house, except his neighborhood has a security gate. Still, every time Will takes out the trash or Kevin goes to get the mail, he can't shake the feeling that there's someone with a camera perched right in the bushes, waiting to sell photos to the Enquirer.

He barely goes to Gunnar's house anymore, except to get fresh clothes and eat. Kevin offered him some hangers for his clothes and a drawer where he can keep a few things, and there's a toothbrush and razor in the bathroom for him whenever he spends the night – which, ever since his big announcement, has pretty much been every night. He's basically living with him, except that he doesn't have a key, and Kevin hasn't actually put it into words yet: _move in with me_.

Just like he hasn't officially said, "I love you."

Will's shoulders twitch. He shakes them a few times, trying to loosen up, for what he isn't sure. But he can't stand sitting here just thinking. And he has too much time to do that now, think and think and think and think, with nothing to distract him.

It's driving him up a fucking wall, all this time to think.

So he takes a deep breath and shakes himself loose and tries to focus on all the papers in front of him, looking for something tedious, mind-numbing, and hopefully time-consuming enough to distract himself from the fact that he has nothing else to do with his day.

That's something else he hadn't considered about his big announcement.. He's used to always having something to do – a show, a radio interview, a photo shoot, a rehearsal, a stadium show. But Luke told him to stay quiet, at least until they figure out how to deal with his news, and the last thing Will wants to do right now is screw things up with Luke more than he already has. He can't remember when he last had this much free time, and nobody told him how boring it would be.

So for the most part, "laying low" for Will has consisted of the following:

1) Checking his phone and email every few seconds for a new message from Luke that never comes

2) Reading every article written on his coming out

3) Searching Youtube for his music videos and reading the comments section

 _You think he's a top or bottom? Bear or Otter? Twunk or Twank?_

 _He wouldn't be much good...how can you take him to a strip club_

 _So many issues._

" _Love the sinner, hate the sin…"_

 _Kiss your career goodbye,,,_

 _I always knew he liked to be ridden bareback!_

 _HOMOSEXUALS AND THEIR DISEASES . GOOGLE IT !_

 _So the guy lied for years, and now everyone is supposed to admire him. And the people that whine that this is newsworthy, are the first ones to put it in a headline._

 _Deviant sexual alignment is a sad choice and clearly wrong. Maybe (but doubtfully) he will change._

 _Another sick fuck gets some attention...so sad to see these poor choices...for sure there must be some nice girl out there, just too chicken it seems…_

 _You are a disgusting piece of trash. People like you are evil and should be put to death._

He hasn't really been sleeping much.

Kevin's definitely noticed. A few nights ago, Will was scrolling through the comments on his video for "Hurtin' On Me" when arms looped around his neck.

"You know it's three AM, right?" Kevin murmured into his ear.

Will blinked. His vision was fuzzy. He'd been staring at the computer screen so long he had an electric buzz going in the back of his brain.

"S' fine," he mumbled. "I'll be there in a second. You go back to sleep."

Kevin kissed the side of his head. "Humor me and do it anyway."

He tried to hide the screen, but Kevin caught a glimpse of it anyway.

"Wait," he said. "This is what you're doing instead of sleeping? Reading troll comments on the internet?"

"It's not – "

Will tried to take the computer away, but Kevin grabbed it first.

"It's not productive and it's not worth your time." He shut the computer and slid it out of Will's lap. "Why are you doing this to yourself? You know it isn't going to help anything."

Will stared at his hands. "I can't help it."

And really, he has no idea why he can't stop. But he can't help himself. It's like passing an accident on the side of the road, or poking the gap of a loose tooth. Except it's his own smoking wreckage he's passing.

He understands now, why Layla was so obsessed with Twitter comments about her when the reality show premiered. Why she willingly tortured herself with reading the awful things people said about her. Why she was always looking up new memes about her, or stupid rap songs of things she'd said. Why she couldn't stop looking up every version of herself that other people invented, twisting and reshaping her like a funhouse mirror, until that version felt more real than anything else she believed about herself.

This is what people think of him now. This is the kind of person people believe he is. And maybe he's got people who love him and support him and are fine with the way he is - his best friend, his boyfriend. But there are a whole lot of people who are more than willing to tell him otherwise.

And no matter what he says or does, he'll never convince them otherwise.

II.

He actually has something to do today – insurance paperwork – and it's probably a sign of just how bored he's been that he's looking forward to filling out forms. At the very least, it gives him something else to obsess over, for the time being.

Except not for long, because he keeps opening extra tabs on his computer to check music blogs and news sites, trolling for any information he can find on himself. Which is a strange feeling. Like he's reading up on someone who isn't even him.

" _I feel like I'm in a costume."_

" _Like you're an actor in your own life?"_

He's busy scrolling through Buzzfeed's Twitter when his phone rings. And, as if he's summoned her just by thinking of her, his ex-wife's name appears on the screen.

 _Are you busy next week?_

It takes him a minute to catch up with what she's asking.

 _Yes?_

He adds the question mark at the last minute. There's a frown emoticon in the text she sends back to him.

 _Are you free or not?_

He makes a face at the words,, because he can hear the frustrated tone in her voice and can picture the exact expression on her face, like she's right her in the room with him.

 _Have 2 double-check but think so. Why?_

 _We need to talk to a lawyer about the house,_ she texts back a moment later _. I'm selling it and we never had a plan in place about what to do with it._

Layla's selling the house? He almost asks her where she's living, or if she's going to move in with Jeff, but he thinks that's too personal to ask her.

 _Why do we need a lawyer?_ He texts back.

 _I met with a realtor,_ she replies. _She said we had to._

He raises his eyebrows. When they were together, she never handled any of that kind of stuff. He signed his name on the deed when he bought that house from Gunnart. He dealt with the mortgage. He helped Layla buy her own car, took her to the DMV to get it and registered. He handled the bills. He took care of it when the A/C broke and their cars needed an oil change and when the rain gutter fell off the garage after a bad thunderstorm. Before she got out of the hospital last winter, he hired an electrician to come in and dismantle every one of the reality show cameras so they would be gone by the time she came home. Layla used to handle a lot of the house chores – unloading the dishwasher, doing laundry, grocery shopping – but she never took on the bigger things. They hadn't ever discussed it – it was just something that they had adopted in the days when she first moved in with him, before they were even engaged. It was just the way things were, and she never questioned it. Neither did he.

For the first time since moving out of the house, it occurs to Will to wonder who is handling those kinds of tasks now that he's not there. He doesn't know much about the day in and out of Layla's life now, or if she's still hooking up with Jeff, but Will can't imagine Jeff taking care of someone else like that. And even if Layla can't rely on Will anymore, he can't picture her doing those things for herself. His ex-wife is a lot of things, but good at taking care of herself is not one of her qualities.

At least, it didn't used to be. 

_She said we had to,_ she finishes texting. _The house is still in your name & I can't sell it myself. We need to work out some legal agreement about who gets to sell it._

A minute later, after he doesn't respond, she sends him another message: _unless you want to handle all this yourself and sell the house for me._

He messages her back: _no thanks. But I will call lawyer for u & set up meeting_

As soon as he sends that text, he wonders why he's getting involved in Layla's business again. The whole point of getting divorced was that they weren't in each other's lives anymore and couldn't do any more damage to each other that their disaster of a marriage already managed to do. And now he's putting himself in her life once again, after swearing on her very-near-death bed he would leave her alone.

Layla must be wondering the exact same thing he is, because it's a moment before she returns his message: _Thank you. I really appreciate it._

There's a moment where he questions if he ought to respond to this – just a neutral _no problem_ or _it's all right_ \- but then he hears the click of the garage door, and then Kevin's coming into the kitchen with arms full of grocery bags, so Will just decides to leave the conversation with Layla right where she ended it and slides the phone into his pocket.

"Sorry that took so long," Kevin says, setting the grocery bags on the counter. "There was an accident on 440 that took forever to get around, because people don't know how to drive at all, and I sat in the stupid dentist waiting room for thirty minutes past my appointment time, and it pissed me off so much I almost gave up. Then it seemed like every soccer mom in the world with screaming kids decided to go to Kroger at the same time I did. I didn't mean to be gone all afternoon and leave you stranded here."

He isn't looking at Will when he says any of this, pulling things out of the bags and loading them into the pantry and refrigerator.

Will stands there for a minute, waiting to see if Kevin launches into another monologue. When he doesn't, Will replies, "it's fine. I didn't have to be anywhere."

He wishes he hadn't said it, because it sounds so self-pitying when he phrases it like that. He sighs, then spots the envelope on the counter.

"Hey," he says. "That invite came in the mail."

"Invite?" Kevin's not really listening. His head's in the freezer, rearranging frozen chicken patties and bags of vegetables, trying to make space for the new groceries.

"Yeah." Will gestures to the pile of mail on the counter. "From ASCAP. About that gala thing."

"Gala?"

Will frowns, wondering if Kevin's just going to repeat everything he says like he's just learning a new language, until the freezer door slams and Kevin finally glances his way. "Oh, that thing at the convention center?"

"Yeah." Will could give Kevin the invitation, but instead busies himself with rifling through one of the grocery bags, filled with deodorant and toothpaste and a box of tissues. "That thing."

"Did you look at tires?"

Will frowns. "What?"

"Tires," Kevin says, closing the fridge. "You should probably do that sooner than later. The faster you get new tires on the truck, the less we'll need to share a car."

"Oh. Yeah, I looked into it."

"Good." Kevin's still unloading the groceries, lining the shelves of his fridge with ketchup and beer and cans of Red Bull. "And don't go to the dealership for new tires. They'll rip you off completely. Go to a Goodyear or Firestone."

Would it kill him to actually talk _to_ Will, instead of AT him?

He gives Kevin a sideways glance, willing him to look his way. But he's still stocking his shelves, his back to Will, and as much as he wishes he had the telepathy to make him turn around, they both stay exactly where they are. Another holding pattern he can't control.

Kinda like his career.

It's been like this for a few days now, or maybe they've stretched into weeks. And it isn't just about the invitation, or the fact that Kevin hasn't said a word about it - and Kevin never shies from saying exactly what's on his mind. It's that Will can't talk to him anymore, for some reason. And that's something he's always been able to do.

He talked to Gunnar about it, which felt uncomfortable and a little weird. Especially because he's going through his own stuff with that Kiley girl, and whatever dance he's been doing with Scarlett for the past few months, and Will is starting to think maybe he ought to just lock the two of them in a room and let them go at it and not let them out until it smells like a monkey cage in there. Then again, Scarlett's got that doctor boyfriend, so maybe not.

"There's a honeymoon stage in every relationship," Gunnar told him the last time they talked. "You and Kevin are probably just at that point. You know, where the shiny 'newness' of the relationship wears off, and you start to see the real people underneath. It happens with every couple everywhere in the world, okay? It's normal. Just frustrating."

"I've been on a honeymoon," Will mumbled. "This doesn't exactly compare."

"You guys have had some really big adjustments the past few weeks," Gunnar said. "He's probably just trying to process it all. And anyway, shouldn't you be asking your boyfriend how he feels, instead of talking to me about it?"

"I tried!" Will said.

Gunnar arched his eyebrows at Will. "Oh, really?"

He hadn't, really, and maybe that's Will's fault. But talking to Kevin about how things have changed seems so...real, somehow, and raw, and as much as things have changed recently that doesn't mean he's ready for everything to shift so cosmically, all at once.

And he also doesn't want to admit what he sometimes thinks, when it's two AM and he's reading a comment thread about how he's "defacing the wholesome family values of country music with his choice to live an alternative lifestyle". Because he knows that Kevin is proud of him for what he did, and happy for him. And Will doesn't want to say that some days he really does wish he could take it all back. Un-come out, bolt the closet door shut and put the world's biggest padlock on it.

So maybe there is a honeymoon phase to every relationship, and this one is coming to an end, but still. Things aren't like they used to be.

He doesn't know how long it's felt like this, or how gradually it started creeping up on them. Things just don't feel the same. They don't click – and what worked between Kevin and Will was that they always clicked.

A few nights ago, things had seemed – more normal. Or at least, what passed for normal, all things considered. When they'd both caught their breaths in bed, Kevin had turned to him and asked, "you do know it's not Sunday, right?"

When Will peered over at him, eyebrows raised. "It's Tuesday," he replied.

Kevin nodded. "I know that. Just making sure you did."

Will frowned. Kevin rolled on top of him, arms crossed over Will's chest, and with their faces only a few inches apart he realized Kevin's expression looked way too innocent.

"It's just," Kevin said, and yep, he was full-on smirking now, his voice teasing, "for a Tuesday night, that was an awful lot of mentions of God."

Will choked. He couldn't help it. He started laughing so hard he was pretty sure he pulled something. Kevin was just lying there on the bed, a big shit-eating grin on his face, and when Will tried to catch his breath Kevin pulled him in for a kiss, and before they knew it they were mentioning God in a way that had nothing to do with the Holy Spirit.

But that was a few nights ago. And now the versions of themselves that had kissed every inch of each other and fallen asleep holding hands seem miles away as they stand in the kitchen putting away groceries. And Will doesn't know how to close that distance, any more than he knows how it was created in the first place.

III.

The thing about Nashville is that even in the thicket of things, you're never far from nowhere.

Case in point: Wheelin' and Dealin's headquarters. Right off of I-40, it's a few blocks away from what looks like nothing but an endless expanse of wide open road, with hardly any signs and no streetlights dotting the asphalt. Before he reaches the exit, he drives mile after mile through green hills and not a whole lot else. No matter how many times he's made the drive, it's always a little surprising – and reassuring – to reach the exit and realize that Luke's office space is only a few blocks away from the big action.

But get off an exit earlier and make a few left turns, and you're sitting on the edge of a sand-covered road overlooking a creek bed run dry of rainwater, the clear sky above you devoid of any buildings or city lights. Just nothing but silvery blue and suffocating heat; even the branches of the trees wither beneath that endless empty sky, and there's a limp breeze that can barely rattle the tall grass covering the dry, cracked ground.

This is where he is now. Sitting in Kevin's car while the local country station plays some hot up-and-comer. It's a warm, stormy day where the clouds are heavy and electricity pools in the air, zapping the tip of his tongue whenever he tilts his head back towards the skyline getting darker and darker.

He's about to go into his first meeting with Luke since the press conference. The first time they've seen each other face-to-face, and apart from a few short, checking-to-see-how-you-are-doing phone conversations, the first time they're really going to talk about everything that's happened. Just the two of them, sitting down alone and talking about a decision that is going to drastically change both their futures.

A decision Will made.

Since his truck still doesn't have tires, he borrowed Kevin's car, and the little black hybrid feels way too small to fit him inside. It's so low to the ground that it makes him feel like an arcade game, like a moving target for a semi. He left way earlier than necessary so he'd have some time to calm down before he met Luke. Then maybe his heart wouldn't drop straight into his stomach.

Like it is right now.

The day after he came out, Luke sent him in an email. Just by looking at the email address, Will could tell it was sent from Luke's own personal email account – not the business one he usually used when he sent Will emails. This wasn't about business, which meant it didn't go through his agent, or his publicist, or Jimmy, or anybody else on his team. This was written by Luke specifically for Will to read, and nobody else.

Which meant that whatever he had to say was going to be real.

He couldn't bring himself to read it for over a week. Every time he was on his laptop or using his phone, he'd hover right above that mail icon, and stop just sort of pressing it. Luke may have said that he didn't care about Will and Kevin, but he was also a businessman. One who had signed Will with the intention of making lots of money off of him and his brand. Who had already invested lots of money and time into making Will the star of his new label.

He really does want to believe Luke is one of the good guys. But Luke is also his boss. When all is said and done, Will thinks he might have tanked Wheelin' and Dealin' before it even got off the ground. And good guy or not, Luke Wheeler isn't the type of guy to just sit back and take being made collateral damage lightly.

Then Luke called to set up this meeting. And once it was done, Will figured it was time to bite the bullet and find out what his boss really thought about him. At least then he would know what he was walking into.

So he sucked it up, and clicked on the email.

 _Will,_

 _I know we haven't had a chance to talk about everything that happened. And let's be honest, everything that's going to happen next is something nobody can guess. I'm not sure where where exactly it is we start, or what's the best road to take now. Definitely the one less traveled, that's for sure._

 _But I do know this. It took serious stones to do what you did, son. If I had been in your position, I'm not sure I could have done it. To be honest about yourself, at the expense of everything you're going to be up against now - that took bravery. A whole lot of it. Most folks don't have a shred of that._

 _Look, I have to be honest about this next part – none of this is going to be easy. It's not going to be fun. I have no idea what it's going to be like – not like we have a model to go off of. You and me, we'll be making this shit up as we go._

 _But we're doing it._

 _You're one of the most talented guys I've ever met. I know you made a lot of tough decisions and sacrificed a lot, and now you're going to be asked to do more of both of those. This whole new strategy is going to take a lot of time and patience. But I'm willing to figure it out._

 _I'm proud of everything you've shown me. Wheelin' and Dealin' still has a place for you_ _here._

Will read it once. Twice. Three, four, who knows how many more times. He read it so much he could practically recite it, line for line. Then he went to Kevin's and printed it out from his computer. He keeps a copy in his email inbox and has the printed version tucked at the bottom of the drawer Kevin offered him. Now he has proof that someone still believes in him.

He read it before he left for this meeting, so he'd remember that.

 _Wheelin' and Dealin' still has a place for you here._

He keeps that phrase in his mind. Holds into it in the back of his teeth like a hard candy, sucking on every word and syllable, trying to savor it and make it last, as he takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to Luke's office.

"Hey, man," he says, and hopes his voice doesn't sound shaky.

Luke glances up at Will from behind the desk, his expression neutral. Will tries not to gulp or breathe too loudly. His heart's thudding in his ears, and even as he thinks of the email Luke sent him, this is his boss and this is his business. There's no looking past what Will did, however much Luke might actually like him.

"Hey, yourself," Luke replies. "Sorry it took us so long to see each other. Things have been…pretty hectic, to say the least."

Will meets Luke's gaze for a moment. There's nothing accusatory in his tone, nothing angry or disgusted, and his eyes are calm, if not a little friendly. If he were here to fire Will, maybe he'd look a little more serious.

At least, that's what Will tells himself, as his gut backflips into his throat.

"That's all right," he manages, and takes a seat across from Luke's desk. He sinks into the chair on rubbery legs and suddenly feels very small. "Things HAVE been hectic."

The two of them regard each other for a beat, face to face with three feet and a whole career in between them.

"How have you been?" Luke asks.

It's a careful question.

Will thinks about the tires on his car. The tabloid headlines. The comments on Youtube and at the bottom of every article written about him. People calling into country radio stations where he'd once been the most requested artist and demanding deejays pull his songs out of rotation.

The word FAGGOT spray-painted in the driveway, right there for everyone to see.

"Fine. It's been…uh, fine."

"And Kevin?"

Holding Kevin's hand on the porch that night. Falling asleep next to him. Kissing him with chapped lips and coffee breath and having it calm every part of him. Waking up and they're tangled together. The night of their first kiss and thinking he fell in love with him that night, in the millisecond between leaning in and closing his eyes.

"Kevin's great," Will says. "He's doing great, too."

Luke nods.

"That's good," he says.

Luke clears his throat and folds his hands over the desk.

"So, let's get right down to business," he says, and takes a deep breath. "I know every reporter across the country is wanting THE exclusive on Will Lexington," Luke continues. " _People_ Magazine contacted my team a few days ago asking for rights to the story. We've gotten offers from _Rolling Stone, Entertainment Weekly_ …hell, the folks at Good Morning America must've left me four messages alone in the last week. Everyone wants to be the first one with the scoop on you."

"And do we have a plan to give one?" Will asks.

Luke nods. "We will. Eventually. Which is why I'm hiring an image consultant. This girl out of L.A.. You'll be meeting her next week. Name's Gabriella. She's supposed to be the best of the best. Worked with everybody - politicians, actors, anyone big-name you can probably think of. We'll talk with her, hear her ideas. And we'll go from there. But first, there are some ground rules we need to cover first."

Will nods, his mouth dry.

"And from now on," Luke says, "we have to make sure that we're united in everything that we say. I don't have to lecture you on how much things are changing. You already know. Which is why you run everything you say by me first." He narrows his gaze to Will. "Everything. Don't talk to anybody without me and my team backing you up."

"And you're going to?" He can't help but ask. "Back me up?"

There's a pause where Luke regards him.

"I told you, you still have a place here," he tells Will, his voice quiet. "I meant it. Just like I meant it when I said I'm proud of you. Kevin's a great guy, and I hope you two are happy together."

Will's throat clamps shut, a warm feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach. It makes him feel a little light-headed.

"Okay," Luke says, his tone business-like brisk again. "Now for the hard stuff. You know CMA Fest is coming up in a few weeks."

Will nods. Before everything, he'd been set to perform at LP Field on the third night of the festival, in between Kip Moore and The Band Perry. He had also been scheduled to do a meet-and-greet at the convention center that afternoon, where wristbanded fans would be lined up for hours to have their pictures taken with him.

"They're pulling you out of the line-up," Luke says.

His mouth drops open. "Seriously?"

Luke nods. "And they're pulling you out of the festival all together. I also got off the phone with the coordinators of the CMT Music Awards, and I hate to say it, but they're pulling you from that event, as well."

"So," Will says in disbelief, " I'm not even allowed to attend?"

"They said," Luke says, treading each word like a stepping stone, "that you are welcome to attend the event, but you aren't going to be walking the red carpet. They'd prefer to avoid the media frenzy."

Sneaking in the back door. Will can't help but remember the CMAs, when a limo had picked him and Layla up from the house and escorted them to the red carpet, where everyone was cheering his name.

Luke watches him try to process all of this.

"We knew there'd be consequences, son," he says. "We'll just have to swallow it and move on."

Will doesn't know what he expected, exactly, but it still hurts to hear.

"Did you want me there in the first place?" he asks. That would technically be his first public appearance since coming out; Luke didn't need to explain how much that moment would matter. Not just to the label, but Will's entire career from now on.

"I haven't decided," Luke says, and Will's a little relieved. He isn't sure he wants his first big moment out to be at an awards show that used to be called the Flameworthy Awards. "I was thinking we'd do something a little more low-key. Get an exclusive out before you make any public appearances, to get people talking in a certain direction."

"And speaking of low-key," he adds, "You know Kevin's being honored at that ASCAP gala for songwriters. I don't know what you two have worked out, but I was assuming -"

"That we'd go together," Will finishes. There isn't any judgment in Luke's expression, but he still finds himself shrinking a little.

"We haven't really talked about it," Will says, "but If it's too soon, too public –"

"No," Luke says. "I think it might be a good place to start. We'd have to run it by Gabriella, see what she has to say about it. But I'll keep that in mind for a possibility."

Will lets out a breath.

"You've been pretty quiet on social media," Luke observes. "That's good. One less thing to worry about controlling."

Will makes a face. "To be honest, I've never liked it much in the first place."

"Neither do I," Luke says with the smallest of smiles. "Which is why I have a team to handle it. But I think it's best that they handle yours, too. For better or for worse, that is how we're going to control a lot of talk about what direction this all heads in. One more thing we'll have to sort out when Gabriella comes to town."

"And the album?" Will asks tentatively.

Luke shakes his head. "I hate to stop, but we're going to have to. Least till we know how all this pans out."

Will already knows this, but still. He was kind of hoping for someone to throw him a bone, just for a second.

"For now, it's just a waiting game," Luke says.

"So…" Will says, "for now, the plan is to just keep quiet, and stand still?"

Luke nods. "For now. It's the best we can do."

There's a pause where he adjusts his glasses, and looks at Will like he's about to say something he really, really doesn't want to say.

"Will, I can't bring you on tour with me," he says. "You know that. I wish I could. I wish it wasn't an issue. And for me, it isn't. But the problem is everybody else. We don't have any blueprint. So for now, we sit, and wait."

Will swallows his frustration as best he can and nods his head.

It's not like he expected to be selling out arenas or keep being a country heartthrob. But everything hinges on his next move, and he has no say in it whatsoever.

It's driving him crazy.

"Got it," he says.

Luke nods, and then stands up, reaching out his hand. Will shakes it, and then takes it as a dismissal.

"Hey, Will."

He turns around at the door, stomach in knots.

Luke offers him a small grin. "Say hi to Kevin for me."

Will tries to smile back. The smile that used to open any doors for him. Including the doors to this office.

"Sure thing."

IV.

He drives back to the house down the long stretch of highway that looks like it leads to nowhere. He has the radio turned down, but even with the low volume he can make out the opening riff of "Boys and Buses", which he heard every night of his life for half of last year and now it's permanently seared into his brain, like the Meow Mix commercial and that creepy "It's A Small World" tune, and now he thinks that Luke is probably hearing that song every night now with Juliette as his new opening act and a there's a sour taste in his mouth. He slams the radio dial and switches the station until he finds something with pedal steel and a whole lot of clang, the drums pounding, pounding, pounding, loud enough to rumble the floor of the truck under his feet like an earthquake, and he rides out the wild crackle and shake like it could split a hole in the ground, big enough to swallow the mess of his life in one giant gulp.

Kevin probably wants his car back, but he hasn't called or texted asking about it, and Will has nowhere to be. And it's not like he's dying to go back to the house, where Kevin will probably find other ways to not talk to him while he does his own thing and leaves Will to simmer in his own boredom and frustration. So instead of taking the exit back home, he keeps driving, heading further from the city as storm clouds descend on the horizon like he's headed towards the end of the earth.

When the sky opens up, it crashes down on the hood of the car like nails, slamming into the windshield and momentarily blinding him until he finds the switch for the windshield wipers. Even then, he can only half-see the road ahead of him, the dim brake lights of the cars ahead and the Tennessee Highway Patrol signs warning him to buckle up, it's the law.

The rain keeps falling and doesn't show any sign of letting up, but he isn't ready to turn around yet, so he follows the rain and the road farther into the dirty nickel sky. The radio is still blaring something fast and hard, although he can barely hear it over the rain on the hood of the car. After a while, Will notices the gas gauge is slowly drifting closer to E, so as soon as he sees signs for the next stop he takes the ramp to the first gas station he sees. It's still pouring outside, so when he pulls under the hood over the fuel pump the pounding on the roof stops abruptly. Reaching into his pocket for his debit card, he looks through every sleeve in his wallet before he remembers exactly where he left it: right on Kevin's coffee table, where he'd been using it that morning to pay bills online.

He sighs, running a hand over his face. And this day just keeps getting better and better.

There isn't any way to do this except run straight through the thunderstorm, so he takes a deep breath and darts across the parking lot, cursing when his foot steps in a puddle of rain and completely soaks the inside of his boot. He throws open the door to the convenience store, shivering automatically in the blasting A/C, and heads to the counter where the cashier, a fiftyish man in a red polo, is flipping through a fishing and hunting magazine from the rack next to the register.

"You picked the wrong day to be out, son," the man says, without looking up from the pages.

Will tries not to roll his eyes. "I picked the wrong day to forget my card." He lays a damp twenty down on the counter, grateful that at least he has cash on him. "Pump seven, please."

Later, he'll remember this moment like time stopped, and the whole scenario stretched out like taffy. Even though it was only a few seconds; probably less than thirty, if he had to guess. He would also remember that the room suddenly felt unbearably hot and airless, like he was standing in the center of an oven, and his soaking wet feet were glued to the dingy convenience store floor, a thousand pounds of lead.

Travis Tritt is playing on the sound system. There's a TV up in the far corner playing the local news. A fly is buzzing around the boxes of cigarettes stacked behind the register, and the magazines on the counter are talking about the new royal baby and some reality show wife getting plastic surgery.

The cashier looks up from his magazine, finally looking at Will, and when he does, his expression twitches like he smelled something bad. He looks at the money on the counter and then back at Will, that same hard look on his face, mouth in a firm line and eyes flat.

"You want it all on the pump?" the man says, without breaking eye contact.

Will nods. "Please."

The man nods, typing in the numbers into the register, and waits for it to print out Will's receipt. While they're waiting, the man turns back to Will with those flat eyes, and stares him down with unabashed scrutiny.

"You know," he says, and Will isn't really listening because he's damp and cold and wants to get out of this freezing store, "my family has listened to country music our whole lives. We think what you're doing is a damn disgrace."

It doesn't hit him at first, what the cashier is saying, because he's thinking "holy shit, it is so fucking cold in this store" and trying not to let his teeth chatter. It's a delayed reaction, and when he does finally hear the words, he stares at the cashier, open-mouthed, stunned into silence.

The cashier frowns at Will. "You and your kind, you don't belong in country music. It's a perversion. You shouldn't be up there talkin' about it like it's normal. What you're doin' is wrong, and it doesn't have a place here."

He can't move. The tips of his ears are on fire, and when a second ago he was cold now he's suddenly burning hot all over.

The cashier never breaks his gaze as he tears off Will's receipt and slides it across the countertop, coolly staring him down.

"If I had my way," he says, "I'd never serve any of you. Y'all ought to just get out, cause it ain't right. None of it."

There's a long moment where they stare at each other, the cashier frowning and Will gaping. Then he takes the receipt, shoves it in his pants pocket, and numbly shuffles out the door.

This time, he doesn't bother running through the rainstorm.


	2. You Need To Give Me This

Author's Note: Thanks to K., excellent beta-reader that she is.

I don't own Nashville.

I.

Today is the day he and Layla are meeting with the attorney, but when he asked Kevin if he could borrow the car Will said he had another meeting with Luke. He doesn't want to lie to Kevin, but nothing kills the mood faster than telling your boyfriend you have to spend an afternoon with your ex-wife.

Will doubts Kevin is even going to notice he's gone - he's been so busy with co-writes lately he barely has time for anything else. He's got today off, but tomorrow he's on the books with Chris Janson, and next week he's set to write with Lady Antebellum for their next album. And last week Kevin had his first session with Kelsea Ballerini, fresh off her first number one on country radio, to help her with material for her follow-up album.

"I'm working with your favorite person today," Kevin teased the morning of the co-write, as they shared the little space over Kevin's sink to shave.

"Hmm?" Will said, not really listening.

Kevin's shaving cream-covered reflection grinned at him. "Kelsea Busybody!"

Will tried to smile. It was a private joke he and Kevin had started when Kelsea's single started gaining traction on the charts. Will liked the song, but he never could remember how the hell you pronounced her last name, so half the time he just made something up that sounded like it: Kelsea Ballerina, Kelsea Basketballer, Kelsea Baskin Robbins. Kevin thought it was hilarious and joined in, and they could go on and on with the ridiculous names until they were both wheezing and light-headed with laughter.

This time, he just grins weakly at Kevin's reflection.

"Sounds good."

Kevin's mouth tilted down.

"What's the matter?" He was talking to Will's reflection again, as their razor-bladed movements mimicked each other.

Will flicked some shaving cream into the bowl of the sink.

"Nothing," he said. "Just tired. Didn't get a lot of sleep."

"I noticed," Kevin said.

They went on for a few minutes in silence, then Kevin put his razor down and turned to Will.

"You want to talk about it?' he asked.

Will had elected not to tell Kevin about what happened at the convenience store. It wouldn't accomplish anything, and even if Kevin tried to comfort him, Will didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to be soothed. He just wanted to bury the words away somewhere instead of feeling them sit on the edge of his thoughts, like sludge he couldn't wipe away.

Will sighed.

"There's nothing really to talk about," he said, rinsing his razor off in the sink.

Kevin watched him carefully. "You sure?"

"Yeah," he said. He managed a small smile, then leaned over and kissed Kevin, smelling the minty tang of aftershave. "I promise. Good luck with Kelsea."

Kevin still didn't look like he believed Will, but thankfully, he had a full calendar and let the matter drop. By the time he came home that night he was full of energy, talking about the successful co-write and how Kelsea was a lot of fun to work with. He pulled up her Twitter page and showed Will the photo she'd posted of the two of them making goofy smiles at the camera, captioned, "worked with the other KB today. He is seriously amazing!"

Will laughed, grateful for the distraction. Kevin seemed to have forgotten all about his mood earlier, or at least put it on pause.

This morning he's up before Will, working furiously at his keyboard, and doesn't blink as he hands over the car keys. Today is set aside for a song he's been trying to write but had to put on the backburner while he worked with everyone else. And when Kevin carves out his own time for his material, Will knows it's a good idea not to bother him. He learned from living with Gunnar not to bug the "creative flow", or whatever.

(He loves them both, but they can get so cranky.)

It's bestially hot outside, and the fabric of his shirt is already clinging to his back as he walks towards the lawyer's office. The air-conditioning is a blessing, slamming him right in the face with an icy blast that goosebumps his skin immediately. It reminds him of the gas station convenience store, and an uncomfortable feeling prickles in his stomach when he thinks that. There's nobody in the lobby except the receptionist, so he stands half-hidden in the corner and waits for Layla.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The receptionist is peering over her desk at him.

"It's fine," he says, trying to stay in the corner, out of her full view. "I have an appointment."

"Name?"

He cringes. He has a baseball cap pulled over his eyes and kept his sunglasses on for a feeble attempt at a disguise, but his name has been everywhere for weeks now. Maybe he could play it off casual and just walk away, before the receptionist can stare at him like he's a sideshow freak. Or tip off TMZ.

"Sir? Who do you have an appointment with?"

"Oh. Uh, Jim Elliot. At eleven."

The girl checks the computer screen, clicks a few buttons.

"Okay," she says. "Are you on your own, or with someone?"

"No, I'm waiting for my ex-wife."

She nods. "All right. I'll let you know when he's ready. You can help yourself to some coffee while you wait."

The phone on her desk rings, and when she picks it up and says, "Taylor & Coleridge, how may I help you?", Will lets out a breath of relief at the dismissal. This girl doesn't look like she has any idea who he is.

The door opens behind him, and Will turns around, expecting to see Layla. Instead it's a short figure in a bulky sweater, hat, and sunglasses, face red from the heat outside. He looks past them, but the figure walks right up to him and takes their glasses off.

"I'm not late, am I?"

He stares at her for a moment. Long jeans and a heavy sweater on a boiling hot day are weird enough, but most of all is the hat, pulled over a head that looks…different

It takes him a minute to figure out what it is - where's her hair?

He keeps staring, and when she notices she glares at him. "What?"

"What the hell _happened_?"

She scowls. "I cut my hair. People cut their hair."

"Layla," he says, unable to stop staring at her bizarre appearance, the same way he can't stop himself from reading nasty YouTube comments. The cropped hair, the sweater, the way she keeps tugging at her sleeves. "Did something happen?"

"It's nothing," she hisses. "It's just –"

Layla sighs, like she isn't sure what kind of "just" she means.

"It was an accident," she says, and when his eyes widen she rushes on. "I know it looks bad, but –"

"What, like, a car accident?"

"No." Layla shakes her head, and he can't believe her long hair isn't trailing down her back, isn't streaming over her shoulders. He wonders how much is left under that hat. "Look, it's none of your business, anyway, so it's not like you care."

"I do care!" he argues, and it's true.

"Well, don't," she snaps, then goes up to the front desk to check in with the receptionist.

He keeps watching her, the weird haircut and the too-hot clothes. Last he heard, she was with Jeff Fordham, like that's not the most bizarre thing to ever happened in this city. Unless Jeff is working her over somehow. Because if there's one thing Will knows about Jeff, it's that he's always got a game to play.

Or maybe they really do care about each other, and the universe went completely insane when he wasn't paying attention.

Layla looks irritated when she rejoins him.

"The lawyer's in a meeting," she says. "He's going to be late."

Will shrugs. He doesn't have anywhere else to be today. His truck is still in the shop, and it's going to cost a ridiculous amount of money to replace all four tires. He's basically got a gag order in place by Luke, and without a tour or album in progress there's nothing he can do except sit on his ass and wait. Being here with his ex-wife is more or less the highlight of his day.

He can't decide if that's the funniest or most depressing thought he's ever had.

Layla crosses her arms over her chest, staring at the ground. He can see now, something poking out of the sleeve of her sweater, curled around her fingers -

"Wait," he says, taking a closer look. "Is that a _cast_?"

He reaches for her hand, and she jerks it back.

"Did you break your arm or something?" he asks. "Seriously, Layla, what happened?"

She bites her lip, yanking her sleeves down to cover her fingertips. Takes a deep breath, and glances around like someone might be listening.

"Look," she whispers. "I fell into a table, okay?"

He blinks at her. "Excuse me?"

"I fell," Layla repeats, slowly. "Into a table."

He takes in her appearance again. "And what, the table hit you back?"

She scowls. "It was made of glass. It broke when I fell on it."

"How did you fall into a glass table?" he asks, with the nagging feeling that he's missing a big portion of this story.

Layla glares him down with so much fury, he's pretty sure she's trying to melt him with her eyes. Which are starting to look a little wet.

Oh, shit.

"It was an accident," she hisses, and tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. "That's all. I know it looks bad."

"No, it's –" He tries to summon the right word to calm her down, but he's never been good at that, and then Layla starts sobbing, which even after all these months still makes his stomach turn. He's never been good with tears, and hers are always so upsetting.

"I know it looks awful," she cries. "I look awful."

She's sobbing in the middle of the lobby, and the receptionist is starting to glance their way. Shit. He did not come here to do this.

"Layla," he tries. She ignores him, still crying, and he takes an arm and puts it around her shoulder gently. When she doesn't throw it off, he guides her down an empty hallway. "Hey, hey. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

She wipes her face dry, and he can see how tired she looks. Her skin looks greyish, eyes rimmed with dark circles like she hasn't slept in weeks.

"What happened?" he says again. "Are you okay?"

"I'll be fine." She shrugs. "It was just an accident. A few weeks and I'll get the cast off."

She repeats, "I'll be fine."

"I still don't get how you fell through a table," he says.

When she doesn't say anything, he decides to ask.

"Where was Jeff when this happened?"

Layla tries not to flinch, and Will's stomach clenches. Jeff's an asshole and an opportunist, but Will never thought in a million years he could actually...

"He didn't -"

Before he can finish, Layla cuts on him off.

"No. He didn't. It wasn't his fault." She sniffs, wiping her eyes with her un-casted hand.

"But he was there," Will says.

"it wasn't his fault," Layla repeats, her voice tight.

It's a lot of reading between the lines and pauses as she mumbles the story out, but the most Will can gather is this:

Layla was texting someone. Jeff didn't like it. He stole her phone and went through it. When Layla found out, she was furious. They fought. Lots of yelling. She hit him; he tried to stop her. She tried to take her phone back; he wouldn't let it go.

Somewhere in the middle of that, she fell over. Crashed through Jeff's coffee table, shattering the glass top. Cut herself up pretty badly on the broken pieces. One trip to the ER later, she had a broken wrist and twenty stitches in her back and neck. They had to chop off a couple inches of hair so the doctors could sew up one deep gash on the back of her head; hence, the short hair. She was wearing long sleeves to cover up the dozens of other little cuts that still hadn't healed, and to hide the cast on her broken wrist.

"It really was an accident," she insists.

He stares at her.

"Let me get this straight." He can't stop staring at the bruised, hollow look in her eyes. "You two got into a fight – over a _cell phone_ – and it ended with a trip to the emergency room?"

"Why do you care, anyway?" She glares at him. "I fell down. It was an accident. He never touched me. He wasn't trying to hurt me."

After a beat, she adds, "Which is more than I can say for you."

Will grits his teeth. "I never put you through a table."

"No, you just spent all last year screwing me over," she says, rounding on him. "Or did you forget that I almost died in a pool thanks to you?"

He looks directly in her eyes. "I didn't forget."

It's a long, tense moment where they regard each other, staring each other down, both waiting for the next move.

He figures it might as well be him.

"So what are you doing now?"

Layla shrugs. "I'm meeting with a stylist later. I'll probably have to get extensions until the rest of my hair grows out. Good news is, it'll cover the scar on my neck. Bad news, I'll probably never wear a backless gown again."

"I'm not talking about your _hair_ ," he says, shaking his head. "I mean – what are you going to do about Jeff?"

She avoids looking at him. Instead, she picks at the sleeve of her long-sleeved shirt.

"I fired him as my manager" she says quietly.

"Good," Will replies.

When Layla doesn't respond, he asks, "you think you oughta press charges?"

She shakes her head. "I don't think it's worth it."

Then she adds, "Rayna wants me to get a restraining order against him."

"Did you think about it?" he asks. It doesn't sound like a half-bad idea. Actually, it sounds like an all-good one.

"I don't want to get the cops involved. And I don't have much of a case. He didn't really DO anything."

Will snorts. "Except push you into a table."

"I told you, he didn't push me," Layla snaps.

He looks her over once more. "Yeah, but, it's still his fault, partially."

"Well, anyway," Layla says, in a tone that clearly states the matter is closed for good, "it doesn't matter, because it's not going to happen again."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I'm moving in with Rayna."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"

Layla nods. "She offered to let me stay in her guest house. She said she'd handle getting all my stuff out of Jeff's place so I don't have to go back. Once I have it, I'll move in."

"Why not go back to the old house?" he asks. "Or hold onto it, just so you have it."

"No" She's shaking her head, hugging her arms to her chest. "I don't want to live there. I can barely stand _being_ there anymore. Too many bad memories."

He has to agree with her on that.

Layla sighs. "And it's too expensive to just sit on and have nobody living there. It's going to cost enough as it is to clean the place up and keeps the yard looking nice for buyers."

Her voice is tired when she adds, "It's time to get rid of it and move on."

She's quiet for a minute, then says, "I never really lived on my own, you know. I went from living with my parents, to living with you, and then with Jeff. It was never my job to completely take care of myself. And now I'll have to do everything on my own."

She turns to him. "I think it's time to try that."

He smiles at her. "You can handle it."

"Yeah," she says drily. "Nothing like falling through plate glass to really give you some perspective."

II.

Two hours later, they come out of the lawyer's office with a new deed to their old house, and the strangest feeling hits Will as he steps onto the sidewalk.

"Well," he says, for lack of anything better.

When she doesn't have anything to that, he asks, "You got a ride home?"

"It's fine," she says. "I drove."

That surprises him. Layla hated driving, especially in the city. She was always nervous behind the wheel, with all the one-way streets and highway interchanges and steep hills without much visibility.

"Thought you hated driving downtown."

"Yeah. Well." She rolls her eyes. "Guess I better learn to suck it up. Be independent."

He smiles. "Good luck with that."

It's only after he says it that he realizes it sounds flippant and dismissive, so he adds, "I really do mean that, Layla. Good luck with everything. I hope it all works out for you."

She doesn't quite look at him. "Hope so. It's kind of my last chance."

"I don't think that's true. And anyway, Rayna'll be good to you. She'll always have your best interest in mind. I know my opinion on this doesn't really matter, but I think you made the right choice."

When she doesn't answer, he stares off down the street. It's strange to think how final this feels. Like a goodbye they never had and didn't realize was coming, until now. They've already had a million of these - when he left her in the hospital, when he stood in front of the judge, when they both signed their divorce papers - but this feels different, somehow. Like it's the last, last, last of the last goodbyes.

It's the house, he thinks. The house was the last thing that officially tied them; the final link to their marriage, the reality show, everything that spiraled out of control. Getting rid of it is finally closing that door, putting it away once and for all.

"I'm seeing a therapist," Layla says suddenly.

The words rush out, and he can tell as soon as she says them that she wishes she hasn't.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" she asks, after the silence drags on in the heat for a minute too long.

Before he can answer, she keeps going. "You probably do. I did so many crazy things. I felt like I was going insane. I don't know why, I just...I felt like I couldn't stop. Any of it."

"I don't blame you," Will says. "Not completely. My choices weren't exactly good. I put you through a lot."

When she doesn't say anything, he says, "I don't think it makes you anything. Not crazy. I think it's good that you're talking to someone."

Layla takes a deep breath.

"I realized I never really dealt with...most of this," she says, her voice soft. "Us. I mean, I wrote a lot of songs, but I went straight from you and the show and everything to…"

She sniffs. "I thought, when I got out of the hospital, that I was starting over." Tears form in the corners of her eyes, but she wipes them away before they fall. "Turns out I just grabbed on to someone else."

"To Jeff," Will finishes for her.

She nods, and she's crying again now, on a street corner downtown, and Will has the most surreal feeling, like he has no idea how he got to this moment. As if all the moments of the past six months – divorcing her, falling for Kevin, his dad coming back, outing himself, getting booted off Luke's tour, and now this – can't connect to each other. There are moments in your life when you sit up and wonder how the hell you got from there to here, and this is one of those moments for him.

Layla is still crying. He has no idea what to say to her.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" It's something he never thought to ask, the whole time he's known her. He never once asked what she wanted.

She wipes her eyes.

"Do you think," she asks, "you could get rid of the furniture?"

"You don't want any of it?"

"No," Layla says quickly. "I don't. I don't care what you do with it – sell it, donate it, light it on fire…it doesn't matter. I just don't want it. Any of it."

He nods to her. "Yeah, I can do that."

She looks relieved when he says so. Then she reaches for him, a brief expression on her face like she's trying not to second-guess herself. As her good arm reaches up to hook around his neck, Will bends down, trying to hug her back without touching her stitched-up backside.

They stand there for just a moment, and it hits him now that he really does want the best for Layla. She deserves happiness. She deserves peace, and someone who really loves her; someone who can help her be the best version of herself. She deserves everything he couldn't give her; what Jeff can't give her; what moving in with Rayna, being signed to Highway 65, and having something to say might finally be able to give her.

They break apart, and she gives him a brief smile before turning away to head to her car. He watches her go, short hair and long sleeves in the stagnant summer heat, walking away from the last bit of their life together.

 _You're free, Layla._

III.

He takes his time getting back to Kevin's house, because he looks at his phone and Kevin hasn't called needing the car and because he doesn't know what else to do with himself. Talking to Layla made him feel weirdly disconnected, and he isn't sure why but he doesn't like the feeling, so he drives around Nashville in circles. He ends up waiting at a traffic light next to the Pinnacle building, which is made of huge glass windows that catch the reflection of the sky like a giant mirror. He turns to look at it and can see straight through the middle to the clouds.

When he finally makes it back to the house, he sees the skid marks on the driveway left over by the tow truck. He stares at them for a long moment, and for some reason the memory of that night with Gunnar on Echo Ridge pops into his mind. He pushes it away with a rough shake of his head, and parks Kevin's car right over the skid marks to cover them up.

Kevin is still hunched over his keyboard, fiddling with a melody.

"How'd the meeting go?" he asks, without looking up.

Will stops in the doorway. "Huh?"

Kevin is still hunched over the keys.

"With Luke," he clarifies. "The meeting with Luke. How'd it go?"

"Oh. Right."

Will kicks his boots off into the corner. Something about the whole ineffectual thump they make when he knocks them on the hardwood floor, their lazy thud not as loud as he wants it to be, makes him want to punch a wall.

"Actually," he says, "it pretty much sucked."

Will sits down on the couch a moment, but then jumps right back up. A minute ago he felt old and exhausted, worn down by the languid heat of the day and the whole weird conversation with Layla. He thinks about the afternoon he just lied about; Layla's casted wrist; the email Luke sent him; the freezing cold of the convenience store; the reflection of clouds through the Pinnacle building.

And Kevin is still focused on his stupid keyboard.

"They're sitting on the album," Will says, and he can't stand still anymore so he paces the room. "Maybe indefinitely. Which I don't even think matters anyway, since they pulled my single off the radio, and now they're hiring this hotshot image consultant from L.A. to try and clean up this mess. So I pretty much can't do anything except sit here and watch my career die white people talk all sorts of shit about me, for who knows how fucking long."

Kevin glances up at him with every few words, but he's still hunched over his keyboard, and Will can feel his face heating up every time Kevin looks down at the keys.

"And on top of all that," he finishes, "Layla's selling our old house, and wants me to get rid of all the furniture, and I have no idea what I'm going to do with a fully furnished house of crap."

"Donate it," Kevin suggests. "Or you could probably sell it on Craigslist. See if Gunnar wants anything for his house and keep what you want in storage for yourself."

Will can't help but wonder if that's some kind of hint. Like Kevin doesn't want him to move in, and Will should start looking for his own place.

"I don't want anything there," he says. He goes to the fridge, grabs himself a beer. "What I want is for someone to make some kind of decision that puts things in motion." He waves his hand in the air. "Nothing's gonna get accomplished if we all just sit on our asses!"

Kevin sighs. "I'm sorry. It sucks. But it doesn't sound like there's anything you can do about it."

"Yeah, well, I want to," Will says sullenly. He knows he's whining like a five-year-old, but he doesn't really care. "Nothing's getting done and nothing's happening, and what the fuck is anybody going to do about it." He throws his hands up. "Nothing!"

Kevin shakes his head. "Well, I don't know what to tell you. Except, it sucks."

He turns back to his work, signaling the ending the conversation.

Will wants to keep poking at Kevin, if only to keep the conversation going until he runs out of steam. But Kevin's focused on his notepad and ignoring him, and it pisses Will off so much he wants to tear the stupid paper out of his hands and force him to keep talking. Except that probably won't do him any favors or make Kevin any more sympathetic to his plight. So Will just stands there behind the kitchen counter, sulking and drinking his beer, feeling like a soda can someone shook up and is waiting to explode.

"Actually," Will says, when the room feels so tense he's about ready to snap, "I kind of wanted to talk to you about something Luke said."

Kevin doesn't look up at him. "Yeah? What'd he say?"

"He was talking about that ASCAP gala," Will says. "You know, the invitation you got? And he thinks, maybe it's a good idea for us to go."

Kevin stares at him. "You mean, as a couple?"

"Well," he says slowly, "That's the idea."

The most awkward, loaded silence fills the room while they regard each other. Then Kevin says, quietly, "I'm not too sure about that."

Will's throat closes.

"Why the hell not?" he demands.

"Because this gala's a big deal," Kevin says. He finally puts down the pen and pad he was scribbling on. "There are going to be a lot of important people there, and they're going to be focusing on the talent."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It means that I don't want them focusing on my celebrity relationship instead of my songwriting," Kevin says. "Because that's what I'm supposed to be there for."

Will's face is burning, a dull static fizzing in his ears. He feels like he did in the convenience store, being stared down by that cashier.

"Celebrity relationship?" he echoes. His voice sounds tinny, far away, like he's in a tunnel. "So that's what this is?"

"No," Kevin says quickly, shaking his head. "It's not that. It's just…"

He lets the sentence trail in the air a moment.

"Look, Will," he says. "I really want you to be there. But with all the publicity, and all the craziness that's been going on lately, I'm not sure it's the best idea. If we go to this thing together, it'll just add to the hype."

"Or it could be a way to set the record straight," Will says. "At least, that's what Luke thinks. That this could be a good moment for my career."

"But this isn't about your career!" Kevin says. "It's not about you at all!"

"Okay, fine," Will says. "Then it'll be good for _us_. For both of us. It shows we're not hiding out! That we're supporting each other, and we care about each other, and don't care what anyone else thinks! It shows we don't have anything to be ashamed of!"

Kevin takes a deep breath. "I'm just trying to say that my personal life and professional life need to stay as separate as possible in the press. Especially now."

"I know that."

"Then could you be more understanding, please?"

"I _am_ trying," Will says, stung. "But...this is a small thing. And I think you're making a bigger deal out of it than it is."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Kevin says, his voice stiff. "But I don't think the gala is the right place to work all this out. It's about songwriting. No gossip, no drama. Tell Luke I'm sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea."

"Well, then, what can I say to convince you that it is?"

"Are you hearing me at all right now?" Kevin frowns. "You need to give me this, okay? I've been completely supportive of you through everything; I need you to be the same for me."

"That's what I want to do! Support you! At the gala!"

Kevin looks like he's about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"Okay," Kevin replies. He gathers his pad and paper off the keyboard, grabs his bag, and slings it over his shoulder. "I'm not going to talk to you when you're like this. I can't."

"So what you're saying is," Will says, as Kevin packs up, "You'd take any other guy to this gala, so long as he wasn't me, dragging your name through the tabloids."

"That's not what this is!" Kevin says.

"Yes it is!" Will yells back. "You _just_ said you don't want people to focus on us as a couple. You want it to be about only you. Like our…" He shakes his head. "Like, what we have isn't important enough for you to be open about."

Kevin's jaw drops.

"You're lecturing ME on being open?" he shoots back. "This is coming from the guy who was in the world's longest walk-in closet."

"Yep, that's it, everything in your life right now is completely my fault," Will says. "I'm the bad guy who screwed up everything for you because I didn't come out sooner." He glares at Kevin. "So, what, I haven't been gay long enough for you?"

Kevin rolls his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me. That is completely not what I'm talking about."

"No, I think I get it," Will says. "You don't like all the publicity. You don't want your name in all the tabloids. You're sick of being under a microscope. You're sick of me having all this baggage you didn't ask for. And you want a guy who doesn't bring all that with him. Someone more...open, or supportive, or whatever the hell it is you're looking for."

He looks Kevin in the eye. "Someone who knows what the fuck they are actually doing in a relationship."

It's like all the air suddenly rushes out of the room.

"So, what," Kevin says after a moment. "You want to break up? Is that what this is?"

Will stares at the ground. "I'm not the one who's been acting like it."

Kevin takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "I'm leaving. So we don't say something we don't mean."

"Why didn't you say I love you?"

Will can't believe he blurted it out, and from the look on Kevin's face, he can't believe it either. But the words are right there, hanging in the space between them, and Kevin is gaping at him and Will can't take them back.

A long pause, then Kevin says, "What?"

Will might throw up.

"You never said I love you," he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, and he has to make his mouth form the words. "I said it, but you never did."

He looks up at Kevin.

"Do you?"

He feels like time's stopped again. Just like it did in the convenience store, where the minutes clung together and time collapsed in on itself and the world shrunk itself down to fit on the head of a pin.

"Will," Kevin says, and his voice is so quiet it might be cracking Will's insides right now. "I didn't...I don't understand why you would even ask me that."

Will blinks, feeling like he's in a daze. His head feels swimmy and light, his body feeling untethered to the ground, like nothing's keeping him from falling straight through the earth.

"Okay, then," he hears himself say, then turns and heads for the bedroom.

"Will. Wait, hold on - " Kevin reaches for him, but Will shakes him off. The bedroom door clicks shut behind him, and on the other side Kevin is knocking and calling his name. Then there's nothing on the other side but the sound of footsteps on the hallway floor, the open and shut of the front door, the jingle of the key in the lock, and the ignition as the car pulls out of the driveway.

Then, Will's alone.


	3. A New Sky

**Author's Note: Final chapter. A huge thank you to the lovely people who read, reviewed, left kudos, or commented. It always makes my day. You're all pretty rad =)**

 **Only a few days until Season 4! May it bring many feels, minimal pointless side characters, 100% less cancer, and all the sweet kisses and gay love. A dash of Sadie Stone couldn't hurt, either. I am so here for this and I have brought the snacks.**

 **I don't own Nashville.**

 **I.**

The house is so still when he leaves. Night is falling softly as a sigh, shadows lining the walls and following him from room to room. The looming darkness vibrates through his skull, reminding him of the rush in his ears after stepping off the stage.

The car is gone, but there's only one place he wants to go, and he doesn't need to drive there. Within a few minutes, he's unlocking Gunnar's kitchen door.

He's greeted by silence again, but not the same buzzing, anxious kind he left at Kevin's house. Gunnar's car is out front, so he must be in the studio, and when he walks down the hall he can hear music on the other side of the door, the light underneath glowing as the floor pulses with beat. He puts his hand on the door and feels it thrumming under his hands, smooth like bare skin, the melody warm and alive.

It used to be his favorite way to wake up, hearing that sound. His floor used to hum with it, the walls singing to him. At any moment, he might have been dropped into a bridge, or land in the middle of a crescendo, the voices wrapping around him, louder and louder, the music soaring, while everything around him was still.

He's missed it. In his house, and when they still lived in the old place. Back when Gunnar and Scarlett were together and it was just the three of them, and even if things weren't always perfect they still felt like they were supposed to be there, like they were all meant to be together; like they just fit.

Now it feels like ages ago – pre-Layla, pre-Zoey, pre-Edgehill, pre-Jeff Fordham and Luke Wheeler and Echo Ridge and radio's most requested and number one album and CMAs and marriage and reality shows and Wheelin' & Dealin' and his father and songwriting and Kevin and Kevin and Kevin and Kevin and –

The door slams open, whacking him right in the nose. He bends over, clutching his face and swearing at the top of his voice. Through the blinding white-hot flash of pain, he's dimly aware of someone else's hand, soft and cool, on top of his own.

"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," someone keeps saying, and then shouts, "Gunnar! Get some ice, quick!"

Will manages to open his watering eyes a slit, barely able to make out a small figure wearing blue, a rope of long blonde hair trailing over her shoulder.

Scarlett reaches for him again, her hand brushing his cheek.

"I am so, so unbelievably sorry," she says. "Can I at least get a look? See if it's broken?"

"Is that what were you trying to do?" Will says, as he bends down closer to her.

Scarlett's fingertips barely graze the surface of his nose, but it still sends a bolt of pain through him that makes him gasp, retreating from her touch.

"I can't tell," she says. "Oh, no, it's really swollen."

"No kidding."

"I am so sorry," she repeats, sounding horrified, and he takes pity on her because she's Scarlett.

"S'fine," he says, pretending like his nose isn't bleeding everywhere and it doesn't feel like someone drove a jackhammer right between his eyes. "A little ice and I'll be fine."

Scarlett looks unsure.

"I'll go get you a towel, or something," she mumbles, hurrying to the bathroom. She comes back with a hunk of toilet paper Will presses to his nose, which doesn't do much good but at least he's not dripping all over his hands anymore.

"I know this is my fault and everything," she says, "but out of curiosity, what were you doing lurking behind the door?"

He shoots her a look. Or as best he can, still clutching his aching, bleeding face. "I live here."

"Are you sure about that? Because I've been here every day this week and I haven't seen hide or hair of you."

"I've had a lot to –" Will starts, then backpedals. "Wait. You've been here every day this week?"

Even with his eyes half-closed, he can still see Scarlett blush.

"Not like that," she says hurriedly. "I mean…we're in the band, and we write, and we've been so busy with recording and the tour, it's all so…a lot of…professional…"

She trails off. "Where is Gunnar with that ice? You think it couldn't possibly take this long. What's he doin', carving a sculpture with it?"

She won't look at him. If Will wasn't in pain right now, he'd be smirking.

Gunnar comes back with a hand towel and a bag of frozen vegetables.

Scarlett raises her eyebrows. "I asked you to get ice. This is a bag of green beans."

"So what? It's frozen. I don't have any ice."

"How do you not have ice?"

"I don't know, Scarlett, because I don't plan on breaking people's noses." He hands Will the towel, which he presses to his nose. The pain explodes again, making his eyes tear.

"Keep your head up," Scarlett says. "Helps with the bleeding."

"I think it's supposed to be head down," Gunnar says. "So the blood can, you know, flow."

"And bleed all over the place?" She turns back to Will. "Look up at the ceiling and keep the ice packed down. Or beans. Whatever it is."

"Pretty sure it's supposed to be head down," Gunnar mutters, "but fine, whatever, you're the expert."

Scarlett whirls around. "Are you moonlighting as a doctor these days?"

"Oh, and you live with Doogie Houser for five minutes and suddenly you're a brain surgeon?" Gunnar shoots back.

"Caleb's an oncologist," Scarlett snaps. "Which you would know, if you treated him with any respect at all!"

"Respect? What's he done to earn my respect?"

"The fact that he acts like a real grown up, not some whining kid who doesn't get what he wants!"

"At least I'm not walking around pretending to be better than everybody else!"

"HEY!"

Will's voice cuts through their fight, and they both whip their heads around, staring at him like they forgot he was even there.

Will presses the bloody towel to his nose. "A little help here?"

 **II.**

Gunnar switches out the green beans – which are starting to feel a little melty – with a bag of frozen meatballs. Scarlett refrains from commenting on this, instead shooting mutinous looks at Gunnar over the countertop.

"Keep that pressed down," she instructs Will, then directs a question to Gunnar without looking at him. "Do you have anything else we can use? An ice pack, or frozen water bottle?"

Gunnar pokes his head in the freezer. "The only thing else I got is a bag of frozen raspberries. Oh, and some waffles."

Will can't see it, but he can practically feel Scarlett giving Gunnar her "I can't believe I'm stuck on the same planet as these morons" face. He'd been on the receiving end of that, once (or twice) upon a time.

"We're not making brunch. Is there anything NOT food-related?"

"My face is gonna smell like marinara sauce," Will says.

"Keep pressing," Scarlett says, then to Gunnar, "Do you have any ice trays?"

"No, Scarlett, I don't have any ice trays."

"You have stainless steel appliances and an in-home recording studio. How do you not have any ice trays?"

"I'm sorry, it wasn't exactly on my list of requirements when I bought the place."

"You can get them for, like, two dollars at Wal-Mart."

"Fascinating."

Scarlett sighs. "Just trying to help."

Gunnar opens his mouth to shoot something back, but thinks better of it. Instead, he turns to Will.

"Is everything all right? You're usually not here during the day."

He glances at Scarlett. He may have just come out to everybody and their mother, but that doesn't mean he's ready to sit around and talk about his relationship like they're teenage girls at a slumber party. "It's fine. It can wait."

Gunnar looks from him to Scarlett.

"Okay," he says, his voice neutral, but his face is pulled into a worried frown.

Scarlett seems to have picked up on whatever it is they're not saying, because she reaches into her bag and pulls out her cell phone.

"Will, could you move your hand for one second? I'm gonna take a picture. Text it to Caleb. He'll know what else we can do about your nose."

Gunnar snorts. Scarlett chooses to ignore this.

When she's out of sight, Gunnar turns to him. "So, what really happened?"

Will pushes the bag to his face.

"Kevin and I got into it," he mumbles.

"About what?"

Will sighs. "We don't have to do this now. I didn't know you guys were busy."

"No, forget Scarlett." Gunnar pulls his chair closer to Will. "Come on. What happened?"

He presses down on the bag again, harder this time. A throbbing ache shoots through him, but this time it's a welcome relief.

"Luke wants us to go to this awards gala together. That big ASCAP thing at the Convention Center?"

Gunnar nods. "And, what, you don't want to go?"

"No, that's just it. I think it's a good idea. Kevin's the one who's dragging his heels." Will shakes his head. "Said he wants to keep his public and private life completely separate. And then he got all mad at me when I said I wanted to go support him."

"Maybe he's trying to keep the gossip to a minimum, you know?" Gunnar says. "Avoid a tabloid shitstorm."

"That's going to happen no matter what," Will replies. "I mean, people are always gonna talk. I can't control it. What I can control is how we react to it. Going to this gala shows I'm not afraid of them. That I'm not hiding in the closet anymore, like I have something to be ashamed of!"

"True," Gunnar says, nodding. "But…maybe you need to see this more from Kevin's point of view."

"Why should I? He's the one who's treating me like some dirty little secret."

"Or he's trying to protect you from making the front page of _The Enquirer_ ," Gunnar replies gently.

Will snorts. "So you're on his side?"

"I'm not on either side!" Gunnar holds his hands up in surrender. "I just think, maybe, he has a point. It's not like that reality show. Your relationship is private and should stay between the two of you. That sounds like what Kevin is trying to do."

"So that means I can't be seen in public with him? Like I'm bad for his image?" Will snaps, and his nose jolts with pain. He winces, then through gritted teeth says, "Because that's how it is. He didn't sign up for this."

"Okay, back up," Gunnar says. "Did Kevin actually _say_ , 'I didn't sign up for this'? Did he _say_ he didn't want to be seen with you?"

"No," Will mumbles. "But he didn't have to! He _told_ me he doesn't want me there, because it's too much for him to deal with!"

"What's too much to deal with? Being together?"

"Yes!"

Will's whole body is throbbing like a heartbeat.

"It's not just about the gala," he says, his voice hollow. "It's felt like this for a while now. Like his head is somewhere else. Like he's…"

He twists the bloody towel in his hands.

"It's like he doesn't want to fight for us." He looks up at Gunnar. "If he did, you'd think the gossip wouldn't bother him. But it does. And he's never cared about what other people thought. So why now? Why does he care all of a sudden?"

Gunnar takes the bloody dishcloth out of Will's free hand and tosses it in the garbage.

"I can't speak for Kevin," he says. "But I do know that he wouldn't have stuck by you unless he saw something worth fighting for. And he's been pretty patient, if you ask me."

Will stares at the flecked pattern on the countertop, shoulders slumped.

Gunnar continues. "I think he's just trying to help. Maybe he doesn't think you're ready for this. It is a really big step, your first industry event together. A lot of publicity."

"I WAS ready for it," Will argues. "I am. That's not what this is about."

"He said it was about keeping you two out of the tabloids."

"That's only part of it."

Will grips the bag of meatballs against his cheek. It's starting to melt from the heat of his hands.

"I don't," he says slowly, "think he feels the same. About me"

Gunnar's face falls knowingly.

"You don't know if he loves you," he says, his voice quiet.

Will can't bring himself to nod.

"What if he doesn't?" he whispers. "Then I made the biggest mistake of my life. I ruined _everything_."

He looks at Gunnar. Tears are pooling, but he doesn't want to let them fall. "And for what?"

Gunnar reaches out and touches his shoulder

"You didn't ruin anything," he says firmly. "And it's pretty damn clear to me how Kevin feels. I've seen the way he looks at you, and it's like …like he can't believe his luck. He would do anything for you!"

Gunnar ribs him gently. "Do you think I'd let you settle for anything less?"

Will knows he's supposed to smile, but can't summon the energy.

There are footsteps coming down the stairs, and Scarlett reappears, phone and fresh towel in hand, which she hands to Will.

"Okay," she says. "I texted Caleb. He says your nose is probably not broken, but if you're still in a lot of pain in two hours, you should go to the emergency room and get it checked out. For now, icing it and taking an aspirin should make you feel better. The swelling should go down in a few days."

"Days?" Will groans.

"Look at it this way," Gunnar tells him. "At least you don't have any gigs booked! Or photo shoots! "Or…" His voice trails off. "Anything, really."

Will shoots him a dirty look.

"And he said you should hold your head forward, with your chin tucked to your chest," she adds, giving Gunnar a sideways glance. "To keep the blood from going into your throat."

"Faaaaantastic," Will replies, bending his head down into the towel. It's already speckled with droplets of red.

Scarlett hands Gunnar the bag of defrosting meatballs. "You might want to stick these back in the freezer. He's starting to smell like a Papa John's."

"I can hear just fine; it's only my nose you took out."

Scarlett gives him a small smile. "Did I mention how sorry I am?"

 **III.**

A few dozen apologies later, Scarlett is ushered out the door, still repeating "sorry, sorry, I am so unbelievably sorry". As soon as she's gone, Will turns to Gunnar, and with as much of a grin as he can manage with half his face purple and swollen, he says, "So. She says she's been here almost every day this week. Care to tell me why you failed to mention that?"

"It's not like that," Gunnar says. "We've been working."

Will nods.

"Mmm-hmm," he says slyly. " _Working_. And uh, how's that been goin'?"

Gunnar gives him an irritated frown, and Will laughs. It's way too easy to wind him up.

"She still with the doctor, I take it?"

Gunnar scowls. "Yep. Still living with Dr. Dull."

He pulls two beer out of the fridge and hands one to Will. "Meanwhile, Rayna wants us to finish the tour with Rascal Flatts, then play at this big showcase she's having for Highway 65 that's supposed to convince artists to sign with the label. And on top of all that, we still have to get into the studio and finish this EP, so we can put something on iTunes and keep the buzz going." He rolls his eyes. "And, of course, there's still our whole publishing deal at South Circle."

Will's stomach tightens. He's happy for his best friend, but it's hard to sit here and listen to him complain about being too busy doing something that he loves. Will would give anything to feel that overscheduled again.

"That all sounds good," he manages, sounding neutral. "Looks like Rayna's putting a lot of effort into getting you guys out there."

"Yeah, but you saw how we were," Gunnar says. "We can barely stand being in the same room together. We had a photo shoot yesterday, and that was hard enough. I don't know how we're gonna manage spending every minute together."

"Scarlett's a big girl," Will says. "She'll figure something out."

"Well, she better hurry up," Gunnar mutters. "Because we're back out on the road in four days."

He sighs, running a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry, man. Enough about me and Scarlett. You came here to talk about you and Kevin."

Will peels at the label on his bottle. "Not sure what else there is to say. We fought, he left." There's a bitter, iron tang in his mouth that has nothing to do with blood or beer. "The end."

"So you're giving up? Just like that?"

"No, I'm not giving up!" he argues.

"Well, it sure sounds like you are."

Will doesn't answer, and Gunnar sighs.

"Come on, man. You can't just throw this away over some silly argument. Okay? Couples fight! It doesn't mean it's the end!"

"Oh, you mean like you and Scarlett?" Will says, raising his eyebrows. "Or you and Zoey?"

Gunnar shakes his head. "That was different. And anyway, they ended things with me. I wanted to fight for them! You, you won't even try."

"Try for what?" Will shoots back. "He made it pretty clear this isn't what he wants."

"Or this is a big misunderstanding you can solve by actually _talking to each other_."

"Yeah, and what if that talk doesn't go the way you think it will?" Will asks. "Then what? What if I'm right, and this is it? What if I chose wrong?"

He takes a deep breath. "I've got nothing after this."

"Bullshit," Gunnar says. "You got your talent, and your contract with Wheelin' & Dealin' –"

"Which is going absolutely nowhere since Luke pulled the plug on my album and refuses to do anything to save my career."

"Then what about the people who care about you?" Gunnar demands. "Who believe in you? It's not just me. Scarlett does! I know Kevin does. And Luke still does, or else he wouldn't have let you keep your deal. And there are a lot of people out there who think what you did was brave!"

"Except none of that is gonna put me back on the map," Will says.

"And that's not enough?" Gunnar says. "The people who care about you don't matter?"

Will frowns. "That's not what I meant."

"It's what you sound like!" Gunnar says, exasperated. "Look, I get you're that frustrated, and you're scared about what's next, but don't take it out on everyone else just because things aren't going your way."

"I'm not," Will snaps, his face flushed. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about!"

Gunnar's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, I don't?"

"No, you dont!"

Will sweeps his arm across the counter, sweeping both half-full beer bottles to the ground. They shatter against the hardwood, foam bubbling in rivers that stagger drunkenly across the kitchen, bits of glass winking at them when they catch the reflection of light.

For a moment, it's so quiet they can hear the beer foam rising.

"You don't," Will says, and even with his voice barely above a whisper he still feels like he's shouting. "Have any idea. What this feels like."

Gunnar stands there, hands on his hips.

"Which part?" he says, finally.

Will looks down at the floor. Bits of broken glass glimmer at his feet. "Any of it."

His hands ball into fists at his sides. "Everything is completely different for me now. I don't know where I'm going, or what to do next."

He reaches down and picks up some of the bigger shards of glass, throwing them into the trash can.

"And the worst part is," Will says, picking up some more sparkling pieces, "there's not a damn thing I can do about any of it. I'm completely helpless."

Gunnar bends down next to him. They're silent for a minute, just picking up the glass, dropping the sharp pieces into the garbage and trying not to cut their fingers on the edges.

When they've picked up all the parts they can find, he turns to Will and says, "You're wrong, you know."

Will looks up at him.

Before the press conference, he always wondered if people could tell, just by looking at him, even if Kevin wasn't in the room. If there were less shadows in his face, or if he betrayed something with just a twitch of an eyebrow. Because he saw that look whenever Gunnar had touched Scarlett's shoulder; when Avery skimmed Juliette's hand; when Jeff pushed the bangs out of Layla's face at the Christmas party with one brush of a finger.

"You might not be able to do anything about your career right now. But you can do something about Kevin". Gunnar leans in closer. "If you give up on that, you're making a huge mistake."

He wonders now, if he's that transparent. If it's as obvious as one touch; that one little flick of curly dark hair, out of eyes that couldn't stop laughing.

"What if already made a huge mistake?" he whispers.

"You didn't," Gunnar replies. "Hey, look at me."

Will does, and Gunnar looks at him like he can read Will with one eye blink – everything branded on his skin, behind his eyes, threaded into his voice, following him closer than a shadow. Like he could see it from a million miles away.

Gunnar squeezes his shoulder. "You didn't."

 **IV.**

He finds Kevin where he said he would be – the Pedestrian Bridge overlooking the Cumberland River. Too dark now for tourists or cyclists, the bridge is mostly empty, just the hum of the road close by and the endless, scratchy click of the cicadas.

Will takes a deep breath and approaches him. "Hey. Uh, thanks for meeting me."

Kevin is staring out at the water. "Look, are you sure you want to do this now? Maybe we should just sleep on it, cool down a little –"

He turns to Will, then his eyes go wide.

"What happened to your face?"

Will brushes a fingertip against his swollen nose. "Walked into a door. Turns out someone else was trying to walk out of it."

It's a little dark to tell, but Kevin might have cracked the smallest of smiles. "Sounds…painful."

"That's one word for it. I might've used a dozen others."

That time, there's no mistaking the grin on Kevin's face.

Will takes another deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You've stood by me through all of this. I know it hasn't been easy."

"No, it hasn't," Kevin agrees. "But it's not just about that. What I don't get is why you would assume that how I feel about you has changed. Or that I don't want to be with you."

Will stares at his shoes.

"How could you tell me that I don't love you?" Kevin asks.

"I don't know," he says quietly.

"Well, you must, or else you wouldn't have brought it up. Did I say something? Do something? Did someone else? What would even make you feel that way?"

"I can't explain it better," Will mumbles. "I just…"

He turns to stare at the river below.

"I've _never_ done this before," he says, not looking at Kevin. "Any of this. I have no idea what I'm supposed to be doing. How any of this works. And I _want_ to."

His hands are slick with sweat, so he folds them over the railing and hopes Kevin won't see them shaking.

"But I understand," he says, "how it can be too much to deal with. It's a lot for anybody. But if you're used to a certain…speed, when it comes to relationships..."

"Wait, wait, hold on a second." Kevin holds up a hand. "Speed? What are you talking about?"

Will shuffles. "You know."

Kevin shakes his head. "No, I really don't. Explain it to me."

Will focuses on the river. It's almost hypnotic, the slow movement of water shining by the light of the moon.

"You know who you are," Will says, still watching the Cumberland's lazy, glimmering current. "You know what you want. And you've done this before, with other people who know what they're doing. Who know how to…how to be the kind of person you want to bring to a gala. Because you see yourself with them, and want everyone else to see it, too."

"Will, my issue with the gala isn't about me not wanting to be seen with you," Kevin says tiredly.

"Yeah, you told me. You said you didn't want people mixing up your personal life and your professional life. You didn't want to hear people talking about us." Will turns to Kevin. "But since when do you care about what other people think?"

"I don't!" Kevin argues.

"Then why does it suddenly matter now?"

"Because it matters to you!"

They stand there for a moment, just watching each other. Then they turn back to the black horizon, speckled with stars.

"You spend all your time reading about yourself on gossip blogs," Kevin says, after a moment. "I wake up at three in the morning and you're not in bed, because you're reading nasty YouTube comments. You're obsessing over every little negative thing people say, and when you're not torturing yourself with that you're grinding your gears trying to get back out there and be the same old Will Lexington. Like coming out was just a publicity stunt, and nothing's changed. And if you work hard enough, you can get back to where you were before and make people forget it ever happened."

"I don't think that at all," Will says. "Completely the opposite."

"Could you please let me finish?" Kevin says.

Will opens his mouth, then snaps it shut.

Kevin continues. "I won't pretend to know how hard it's been for you. I can understand the pressure of people wanting you to be something you're not, but I don't let it dictate my life. And I don't judge you for being in the closet as long as you were, or making the choices you did, because it's hard to not let all that ugliness get under your skin. I did, too, for a long time, before I realized all it did was make me miserable."

He sighs. "I wanted you to be able to get to that point. Someday. Because when it was just the two of us, and you could finally be yourself, I saw this…crazy potential. You could have been so much more than you were letting yourself be. And I don't just mean being in or out. I mean, everything about you was different when you were really _you_. I don't know if you realized this, but you can write some beautiful music."

Will shrugs one shoulder. "I didn't exactly do it on my own."

"Stop downplaying yourself!" Kevin whacks him on the arm. "Those songs came from someplace real. And sure, I helped. But the first rule of songwriting is that it has to come from you, not anybody else. Otherwise, it sucks."

 _It has to be from someplace real._ He remembers Layla saying those same words to him, once.

"The reason I didn't say 'I love you' wasn't because I didn't feel it," Kevin says, his voice quiet. "Because I do. I did, when you said it."

They're both quiet while the city glows at their backs.

"I've known for a while that I loved you. It's just that you came out of the closet, like, six minutes before you said that. And I didn't – "

A long, loaded pause, and then Kevin says, "I was proud of you, for what you did. But it also worried me. Because I didn't want it to be for the wrong reasons."

He peers up at Will. "I didn't want you to come out just because of me."

"I didn't, Will says.

A beat, then, "I don't think I did."

He shakes his head.

"I didn't," he says, and this time he knows it's true. "I didn't want to lose how good it felt. Not just being with you, but how it felt to really be myself. And how I didn't feel…bad, or ashamed of it. For the first time in my whole life. I wanted to keep that feeling. Because with you, I was happy. I am."

When Kevin doesn't respond, Will leans over the bridge. Water laps against the pillars holding them above the blackness, and from here it looks like the river is breathing softly, fast asleep and dreaming.

He wonders how many times he'll be in this position – holding his breath, unable to meet Kevin's eyes, daring himself to say the words and just ask for everything he never let himself want, his whole life put in two little words:

"Are you?

Kevin finally meets his eyes.

"Yes," he says. "I was happy for you. I was happy _with_ you. I still am. I was just worried. That you'd want you to pin all of your hopes on a guy you had only been dating for three weeks before coming out to the entire world. I was afraid that you'd regret it. I didn't want to be the reason you didn't accomplish all your dreams."

Will stares at his hands.

"I guess it is a lot of pressure," he admits.

"Kind of!" Kevin says, and they both laugh.

After a minute, Will murmurs, "I don't regret saying 'I love you'."

"But you regret coming out?" Kevin asks.

Will shrugs. "It's complicated."

Kevin shakes his head. "That's a terrible answer for a songwriter. It's like saying 'sometimes, love isn't enough'."

He points at Will. "You can do better than that. Go."

Will scowls at him, and Kevin grins.

The words come out slowly.

"I don't wish I could undo it. And I don't regret that I did it. Because I was never happier than when I was myself." He looks at Kevin. "With you."

Kevin nods.

"And I didn't want that to stop. I still don't." Will shakes his head. "I just wish it could be the two of us, you know? Without _Us Weekly_ and _Inside Edition_ and everybody having something to say."

Will sighs. "I should have listened better. With the whole media thing. I hate it as much as you do."

"At least you're kind of used to the circus," Kevin says. "You had cameras following you around all last year."

Will rolls his eyes. "First of all, you never get used to that. And second, the reality show was my life as a straight guy married to a girl. It wasn't anything like this." He focuses on the moon's reflection on the dark waters. "Like us."

Kevin leans next to him.

Will shakes his head ruefully. "You know, it's funny. I thought finally coming out would take this big weight off of my shoulders. No more expectations about who I was supposed to be. No more faking it. I could finally just…be me." He laughs a little, shaking his head. "Turns out, I have no fucking idea what that actually means."

"It's okay to not know yet," Kevin says. "You think the rest of us are born knowing who we are? It's a process for everyone."

"I hate that word," he grumbles.

Kevin smiles. "Yeah, but it's the truth. Even for guys I know who have been out since birth, practically. Look, this is new for me, too, in a lot of ways. It's not like there's a plan to follow. I don't know what the next step is. I wish I did. I wish I could make this easier on you."

"You've been trying to do that already." Will sighs. "I should be the one apologizing. I haven't been the…easiest person to be around lately."

"No," Kevin says, but he's grinning. "You haven't."

"No riding off into the sunset," Will says, smirking a little.

"Pretty much," Kevin says.

Kevin turns back to the water. He reaches over and takes Will's hand as they scan the horizon, squeezing it in his own.

"Have you thought about talking to Luke?" Kevin asks. "About staying away from media requests, just for now? I'm sure he understands it's a lot to deal with. And it's not like he doesn't have his own stuff going on, with the tour and launching Juliette's record, and the album he still has to finish. He's got enough on his plate right now."

"Exactly," Will says. "I don't want to add to it with my troubles. Besides, think I already disappointed him enough for one lifetime."

"If he was really disappointed, he would have dropped you," Kevin replies. "The fact that he didn't means that he still has faith in you. He thinks you're good enough to make it."

"But there's more than just my career riding on the outcome," Will says. "This is Luke's business. And he's been great, and I'm thankful he's supportive, and I know that things could have been a lot worse. But –

He knew what Luke said in that email – how he was proud of Will's bravery, that he was committed to working things out together, and they'd figure out a plan eventually.

But what if _eventually_ wasn't good enough?

He turns to Kevin.

"I don't know how to do any of this," he says.

 _Be out._

 _Be the singer Luke needs to sell albums._

 _Be pushed away from places I used to be welcome._

 _Be in a real relationship in front of everybody._

 _Be a boyfriend._

 _Be in love._

"And what if I can't?" he whispers.

"You will," Kevin says, but Will shakes his head.

"No, I mean it." His chest hurts. "What if I never figure anything out? What if this is it for me? What if everything's just…over?"

Kevin squeezes his hand again.

"You _will_ ," he repeats. "And yeah, it's going to take a lot of time, and patience, and it's probably going to be hard. But you _will_ figure it out. I promise."

He bends closer to Will, leaning in for a kiss. But instead of pulling him close, Will puts a hand out, pushing Kevin back.

"Why are you with me?" he asks.

Kevin stares at him. "Excuse me?"

Will looks at the ground. "Why are you even with me? What do you get out of…out of us?"

Kevin frowns. "I don't think I understand the question."

Will pulls his hand away from Kevin's, folding his arms across his chest.

"Maybe it IS too much to put on you," he says, more to himself than to Kevin. "Going super-slow, and me being…" He shrugs. "You know. Me. With too much shit to figure out."

"Then let me help you figure it out," Kevin says. "I want to."

Will looks at him. "Why?" he asks.

He's been afraid to ask this question for weeks; not just out loud, but in his own head. Because he's already lost his family, his reputation, his chance at superstardom. So many people believed so many different things about him, had so many expectations they thought he'd one day meet.

What if he doesn't measure up to what Kevin believes about him? What happens then?

Kevin is giving him the strangest look.

"Why?" he repeats. "Because I'm in love with you!"

Will's head spins so fast, he can't tell if the stars are moving or it's just the world that's been tilted on its side.

Kevin shakes his head in disbelief. "I've been in love with you since…probably our third co-write. When I saw this incredibly talented songwriter who poured everything he had into his work, and was more passionate about it than anyone I'd ever met. This guy who has a great heart and a lot of love to give. I liked bringing that out in you, and seeing you bring it out in yourself. You've got so much more to offer the world – way more than what you were selling before. I want to see all of that come out of you! I want to be there when it happens!"

He takes Will by the shoulders.

"I love you," he says solemnly. "I want to be with you, and help you figure this out. Because everyone should know I fell in love with an amazing person."

He kisses Will, then looks him directly in the eyes.

"That's what I get out of this," he says. "Okay?"

Will blinks. He stands there, staring at Kevin, waiting for the world to right itself again.

"Okay," he says. It's all he can manage, right now.

 **V.**

They drive home in silence, but not the same heavy, airless kind that clung to the atmosphere after their fight. It's like they've both been sprinting a mile uphill, and now they need time to catch their breath.

The spell finally breaks when Kevin's about to pull off the highway.

"Wait," Will says. "Are we going back to your place?"

Kevin glances over at him. "That's the idea. Why, where did you think we were going?"

Will turns to look out the window. "I don't know. I wasn't sure you wanted me to, after today."

"Well, I do," he says, and Will's whole spine shivers at the smile in Kevin's voice. "But if you want me to drop you off at Gunnar's, it's fine."

"No," Will says quickly. "I want to stay. With you."

"Good to know," Kevin drawls.

Will turns back to the window. The highway lights wave behind them as they pull onto the exit.

"Hey," he says, "Can I ask you something?"

"Like what?"

"Like…" He figures it's now or never. "About this whole thing. Me at your place, or me at Gunnar's, or what you want, or what the plan is for – "

"Are you asking if I think you should move in?" Kevin asks.

"No." Will bites the inside of his cheek. "I'm just asking, what do you want to do? You know, in the… the long run. Or at least, something more permanent than right now."

"So basically, you're asking me if I think you should move in," Kevin says.

Will blows out a breath. "Okay. Yeah. I guess."

Kevin laughs. "You could have just said that."

Will is smiling a little. "I wanted to. I guess I just thought – "

"That I'd say no?"

"Yeah."

"Why would you think that?"

Will turns to him. "Does that mean you want to?"

Instead of answering his question, Kevin asks again, "why did you think I'd automatically say no?"

He hesitates.

"Tell me," Kevin says. "What gave you that impression?"

Will shakes his head. "It wasn't a specific thing you did. Or said. You didn't do anything, really. I guess I kind of panicked."

"Why would you be panicking?"

Will sighs, trying to draw the words out.

Kevin laughs. "Wow, this is really hard for you, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Talking about your feelings. I mean, I've tried before, but every time it's like pulling teeth! It never gets easier!"

"Yeah," Will admits. "It's not my favorite thing."

"You don't say."

They both smile.

"So, Kevin says, "to be clear, you thought I didn't want us to be together. And it wasn't anything I said or did. But you just had this feeling it was true."

"I guess," Will mumbles.

"Do you still believe that now?"

Will turns to him. "You know, you never answered my question. Do you think we should move in together?"

They pull into the driveway of Kevin's house, and he turns the car off. But instead of getting out, the two of them just sit there in the dark, not saying a word.

"It's not that I don't want to," Kevin says finally. "I have thought about it. And I like the idea of it."

"But?" Will prompts.

Kevin takes a deep breath.

"Will, I'm really sorry," he says. "I should have brought this up sooner. I like having you here. I really did want to ask you. But you were so obsessed with everything people were saying, and I kept thinking, _what if he regrets this? What if he doesn't really want this? What if he wakes up one morning, and thinks he made the biggest mistake of his life_?"

Kevin shakes his head. "I thought asking you to move in would be too much, too soon. I was afraid it would overwhelm you; I didn't want you to feel like I expected you to change your whole life because of me. And I didn't want you to someday resent me for everything you gave up. When you'd think being with me wasn't enough. I didn't want to be in that position."

He watches Will for a reaction. "Are you mad?"

Will blows out a breath. "No. You're probably right."

"I wasn't trying to be passive-aggressive about the whole 'move in' thing," Kevin says. "I just…I genuinely did not think we were there yet."

"We aren't," Will agrees. "I mean, I'm not. Not yet."

"You don't have to be," Kevin replies. "I don't expect that from you. And I'm not the passive-aggressive type, anyway. If something is bothering me, I will tell you straight out. All right? If I'm mad at you, or upset, you will be the first to hear about it."

"Good to know," Will says with a small smile.

"I have a spare key," Kevin says. "You can have it. I think you should have it, actually. I always want you here."

Will reaches over and takes his hand. "I'd like that. But if you ever change your mind, I'll leave you be."

"And go back to Gunnar's?"

"No," Will says, and remembers his conversation with Layla outside the lawyer's office. He remembers how she said she'd never really lived on her own; she'd jumped from her parents' home, to living with Will, and then with Jeff, always avoiding being alone and having to take care of herself. He'd gone from living with Gunnar to living with Layla to living with Gunnar again to practically moving in with Kevin, and ever since the press conference he never really stopped to take a breath on his own. Instead, he found other ways to avoid that aloneness, because it would mean he'd actually have to think about the mess of his life. Which meant lingering on the very scary prospect that everything he worked for might be over, and there wasn't anything he or Luke or any hotshot L.A. publicist could do about it.

Maybe he and Layla have that in common. Making these major life changes, and afraid to be alone during them. Because if you are alone, you have to come to terms with them. You have to decide if they were mistakes or not, and deal with whatever comes after, instead of having someone else solve the problems for you.

Being alone means you're responsible for everything you choose, good or bad. And you couldn't stop the consequences, any more than you could stop the days from passing.

What he did wasn't a mistake. He knows that. But all the time he's spent obsessing about his career kept him distracted; kept him from comprehending the full weight of it. Kept him from thinking about what it means for him, now that he's finally allowed to become the person he's meant to be.

Whoever that is.

"I'm gonna find my own place," he says. "I think that'll be good for me."

"How so?" Kevin asks.

Will looks out the windshield. So many stars. He can see the front porch, the night he made his decision; holding hands the way they are right now.

 _None of it made me feel the way you do. I love you._

"I was freaking out because I didn't know what to do next," he says. "So I spent all my time with you. Because at least when we were together, I understood who I was. At least partly. Or who I wanted to be, I guess is the better explanation."

"That's flattering," Kevin says, grinning.

Then Kevin's fingers lace in his own, and Will feels the same wash of realization come over him he felt when he said goodbye to Layla on that street corner. He deserves peace, and happiness, and someone to love all of him. He deserves someone who will help him become the greatest possible person he can be.

The best version of himself.

And he needs to keep learning and relearning that lesson, until it becomes something he knows as clearly as his own names.

He figures, if you're ever going to work things out, you need to face your shit. Even if that shit is really hard, and uncomfortable, and uncertain, and comes with zero guarantees.

Sometimes that makes you sacrifice your biggest dreams. Sometimes it leaves your body broken, or even permanently scarred. Sometimes it takes your whole damn life to get your act together and look at that person you were meant to be with from Day One to say _you can, you do, you will_.

"I guess if I want to be that person all the time," Will says, "I need to feel like that when I'm alone."

Kevin is holding his hand so tightly. "Sounds like a plan."

 **VI.**

The awful flickerbeat silence that lingered in the floorboards and echoed through the walls earlier is gone, and by the time they make it to the bedroom it's been replaced by breath and lips and fingertips, reach and teeth and heartbeat and _I need, I need, I need, closer, need you closer._

They fall onto the mattress, clothes peeled away, hands and mouths and words on smooth planes of skin, like they're testing out a new language. A new way murmur under their skin, through each other's bones.

Then Kevin's head bends closer to his, and they bump noses, making Will flinch and swear under his breath.

Kevin pulls back. "I'm sorry! Does it really hurt?"

His nose feels like someone whacked it with a baseball bat, but every part of him is humming, so who cares if his face is still swollen and he officially can't smell a damn thing.

"Not really," he says. "It's just sore."

Kevin is biting his lip, trying to hide a smile. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, Will grabs his waist and pulls him back into his arms.

More clothes slip off, more skin touched and tasted, more urgency exploring feeling scratching reaching _needing_ , and the worst part about being without this for so long is that for years, Will believed all of this was just an itch to satisfy, a curiosity to poke at. Like a kid brandishing a stick at a hornet's nest – knowing it's dangerous, but too fascinating by this pulsing, buzzing, monstrous thing to stop himself. Repulsed and awestruck at the same time, needing to get closer when at the same time knowing he should turn and run, before the consequence of his nosiness left him writhing in agony. He'd spent years believing desire akin to disgust, pleasure a prerequisite for pain. Touch would always equal punishment.

It didn't equal being a thing that holds your skeleton together, that swims through your blood in its own heated current, boiling you from the inside out; something that isn't a drink of water to someone dying of thirst or a map for the wandering, but like discovering a new sea or a whole galaxy made of North Stars. It's how you come apart without breaking down, and being remade into something sacred as a prayer, as a blessing.

"Ouch," Will says again as Kevin bumps his swollen nose, and when they pull apart from each other they're both cracking up.

"I'm sorry!" Kevin's laughing into the sheets. "I swear, I'm not trying to hit you!"

"Maybe I should wear a catcher's mask," Will says. "Or a football helmet."

Kevin's eyes glint.

"Or," he says, his voice low and teasing in Will's ear, "we'll just try something else."

Will's entire body is so stupidly turned on right now his head is fogged as a windshield, and Kevin slithers downward, hands moving expertly across him, lower and lower and _oh shit, that feels amazing –_

"So I was thinking," Kevin says, because of course he has to start a conversation right now, when he can torture Will as much as possible, "with Luke being so busy nowadays –"

"Stop." The fog immediately clears, and he tries to sit up, pulling away, because he's naked and Kevin's about to be, and, "for the love of all things good in the universe, please, _do not_ bring up Luke Wheeler right now. Or at all."

A beautiful smirk as Kevin slides back up to his face, kissing his neck.

"I was just going to say," he murmurs into Will's collarbone, "that it's a good thing we have so much time to work things out."

Hands and tongue and teeth move back down his body, and Will can only tilt his head back, closing his eyes while every nerve is flying high, striking a chord through him, a lightning harmony of electric wings, leaving a smoldering shadow behind. It sears its ashes across his heart; turns the sky a new color that hasn't existed before now; leaves the whole of him pulsing in its wake.

When he wakes up tomorrow, there world will still look the same, feel the same, be the same. Only he'll know the sky could change the way it did.

But believing in that, it has to be a start.


End file.
